Pursuit

By Gene Hackman

Gene Hackman, acclaimed actor and author of Payback at Morning Peak, “takes aim at a clear target: telling a good story” (St. Augustine Record) in this contemporary thriller.

GENE HACKMAN brings his richly diverse literary voice to a gripping new thriller that pits a devoted police sergeant against a predator who may cost her everything that matters.

“I’ll say this for the last time. Take your hand off the shotgun.” In a tense standoff with a shopping mall shooter, Sergeant Juliette Worth has the suspect about to surrender—then in a few explosive seconds, she takes him down.

Usually a by-the-book cop, Julie has too much at stake, raising her daughter on her own, to break protocol—until the mall killer pushes her over the line. Instead of kudos for saving his hostage, the Missouri State Criminal Investigation Unit hands Julie cold case duty. Among the forgotten files, she uncovers a disturbing connection between disappearances from years ago—all pretty girls, all presumed runaways. Now Julie’s instincts have her hunting a predator still very much in the picture. Someone who pulls Julie into a harrowing chase—by abducting her own daughter. . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pocket Books
• Release date: Nov 26, 2013
• ISBN: 9781451623598

Gene Hackman

Gene Hackman is the author of two novels and coauthor of three other novels. He is a two-time Academy Award–winning actor with lauded performances in such films as Unforgiven, Bonnie and Clyde, The French Connection, Mississippi Burning, and The Poseidon Adventure, among others. He lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico, with his wife and two German shepherds.

Book preview

Prologue

A brisk fall day in 1995. The oaks and cottonwoods battled for color rights in the annual October leaf display.

The wooded path wound east across two rock-strewn creeks, through a grove of walnut trees, and out into a slight rise overlooking a hundred acres of sweet corn.

I’m Cleopatra’s handmaiden—prettier, of course, and smarter, but always demure. Betty’s schoolbooks were piled atop her head. She swayed her hips along the dirt path in time to a dum-ditty-dum-dum beat.

Yes, of course, and I’m Amelia Earhart flying across the Pacific. Beverly, the younger of the two sisters, had always been more levelheaded and astute.

Ah yes. And we know what happened to her, don’t we? While others fritter away their time on adventurous nonsense, I, on the other hand, reign supreme gathering my awards and accolades.

You got a B in gym class, for heaven’s sake. Give it up.

Give it up? Hardly. Mr. Scott says I could go all the way.

"Mr. Scott, I think, means the two of you could go all the way. You’re almost seventeen, get with it."

Oh, Bev, you’re no fun. Every time I do well, you beat me down. Go on ahead.

He parked not in his accustomed dirt road spot but farther on in a wayside picnic area. Dodging into the wooded expanse between the road and wetlands area, he found the animal trail that led him back to a knoll and his favorite dogwood.

Arriving early had been the plan, not just to get settled but to convince himself he would be doing the right thing. He needed time to think, not about what he was going to do but the consequences. His past deeds had been easy. The planning, execution, all a snap. He watched, off and on, for days, under this particular yellowed tree. The anticipation when the distant school bell rang. The delicious wait as the two girls emerged along the bushy path. He felt he knew them, shared their silly rhymes and school songs. Others crowded his past life. Drifters, thumb trippers, but now a different grander path, a different set of prey.

They came right on time, their incessant bickering a dreary habit. The two of them, though dressed in identical clothing, were not twins but made a handsome pair. The older and taller of the two was also prettier, while the other, more thoughtful. It would be difficult convincing them he was injured and needed help. Using a long oak branch as a makeshift crutch, he braced the gnarled cane against a large stone and recited in his head the memorized plea. Help, please help. I’m injured and can’t walk. It needed to be just right. Not too much hooey and not overdone.

The two of them would be a challenge, but they would keep each other company at his Bait Shack. Down on the path from school, he could hear them arguing.

I need to go, I can’t wait.

Hold it til we get home. I’m leaving, stupid. See you at the house. Remember, chores.

The younger girl moved on.

He saw her through the gap in the trees. She, flouncing her golden hair and sprinting away. It just got so much easier. Charlie’s day brightened with opportunity.

Other than a few errant scratches around his throat from the older girl’s stupid protests, he was fine. Wearing a turtleneck to work would quiet any nosy questions.

Later, sated and filthy from digging, he felt regret. Not for his happening, as it were, but for the missed chance of a double conquest. Maybe later.

Saturday afternoon, and Julie Worth parked at the Westside Mall to shop for her teenager’s birthday. Despite leaving her Jeep close to the entrance, she would still have quite a walk. As she started across the vast macadam lot, the air held the crispness of a perfect late-fall day. Near the mall entrance, the early rumblings of a disorderly crowd, with several people rushing through the electric doors. A woman fell, trying to push through the slow-moving exit.

A man, with a gun. Inside.

Julie helped the woman to her feet.

Others rushed past her.

Jesus save me!

Move it, bitch!

She pressed against the rough brick surface of the mall entrance. Part of her wanted to stop, seek cover, and wait for backup. But she knew that was so 1999. Columbine changed everything. Old rules—call it in, wait for a Special Weapons and Tactics team—still applied to a barricaded badass. But this situation looked like an active shooter, someone still racking up a body count. And the orders were simple—go stop him. About 30 percent of the time, the first cop in would get shot. So she knew she would have a two-out-of-three chance of going home tonight.

A woman clutching a child stumbled and grabbed Julie by the waist. He’s killing people, call the police.

I am the police. Julie stepped through a broken glass door and pushed against the human stampede. With one hand clasped on her holstered 9-millimeter Sig Sauer, she held her badge high above her head and moved toward the corridor wall.

Once firmly inside the mall, she saw only a few people remaining in the wide hallway, some crouched in store entries. Julie signaled them to slip away. She waited and listened. Halfway down the mall at the junction of another hallway, a body lay sprawled on the floor.

Julie stayed to the extreme left side of the wide passageway. Stepping lightly, she stopped at each store entrance to assess the situation. Echoing effects of shouts and cries for help played tricks with the direction of voices.

She took a deep breath and called 911. Sergeant Worth. Missouri State Patrol. I’m at Westside Mall. Active shooter on scene. Man down in center of corridor. Condition not known, send an ambulance. I am armed.

She put her phone on vibrate and once again eyed the corridor before her: a man in a pale green security guard shirt and navy blue pants, splayed out in front of an information kiosk. A distant siren drew close; someone else must have called 911 first. Julie secreted herself in each storefront, checked the area and moved on. Her phone vibrated. She didn’t recognize the number. Sergeant Worth, who is this? She stepped deep into the vestibule of a shoe store, her hand cupped over her phone.

Lieutenant Mac White, city police. Sergeant, I suggest you get the hell out of there while we assemble our SWAT team.

Due respect, sir. I got caught in the middle of this, but now that I’m here, we have what looks like a security guard down in the center of the mall. I’m fairly close to him, probably safer here than trying to make my way back out. Hold, please.

Across the X shape of the concourse she saw movement. Behind the counter of a fast-food stand, a man with one arm hooked around the neck of a screaming boy. The man’s other hand held a sawed-off shotgun.

Still there, Lieutenant?

Just heard from my captain. Listen, Trooper, he wants you out of there. Now.

Tell him I don’t work for him. I just saw the suspect. Looks to be forty-five to fifty, white male, dark blue T-shirt, red-and-blue baseball cap. Heavy beard, long brown hair, five foot ten, one eighty. He’s got a hostage; kid about fourteen. Suspect is armed with what looks like a sawed-off shotgun.

Hold tight. The officer was on the radio, a garbled voice coming back at him. State your name again, Sergeant.

Before Julie could answer, a loud shotgun blast came from the fast-food stand. Broken glass rained hard on the terrazzo floor. A sign above the information booth knocked lopsided on a chain. Then a scream.

Anybody around here better listen up! I’m gonna kill this little bastard! He raised his voice. You listening?

Julie tucked down low behind the window valance. If she crept along to just one more storefront, the information booth would hide her from view of the food stand on the other side. She whispered into her phone.

Subject will kill his hostage. How long before SWAT?

Ten minutes tops.

Kid will be dead by then. I’m going in.

You are not to—

She closed the phone.

The gunman’s voice faded and then grew loud as he paced. She waited until the sound cut back; then she slid around the corner of the storefront and lay flat on the stone floor, pushing her way forward, ranger style, with her elbows. She smelled old floor polish and dirt from thousands of shoes. When she reached the next store, she turned 45 degrees to her right and continued to crawl across the open center of the concourse, toward the pagoda-like stall in the center.

The man in the security uniform, blasted in the face. Julie, still prone, searched for a pulse. None. A half door on the booth left open, describing someone’s hasty exit. A sliver of light edged through the far side of the hexagon-shaped structure. She crawled in and surveyed the food stand from the top of the cracked board.

From somewhere, a woman cried out a prayer in Spanish. A dull thud came from the food stand. Julie peeked through the splintered board as a man with a head wound and blood-splattered white chef’s gear stumbled out of the stand and fell to the floor.

Shotgunman still paced, his head bobbing, the young boy still secured by his crooked arm. Through the opening to the kitchen jutted three sets of hands, all stretched toward the ceiling. The man continued to pace and then stopped to slap the boy. He wrapped his arm back around the kid’s neck.

Julie’s phone vibrated against her pant leg. She whispered, Go.

Where are you?

Kiosk.

We’re at the end of the corridor. SWAT is on the way.

Hold. She crawled into a corner where someone had left a jacket on the back of a chair. She bundled it up in front of her mouth, almost gagging from a heavy, perfumed scent. She pulled the phone under her makeshift muffler. This guy’s berserk, Lieutenant. He’s beating the crap out of a kid; three other hostages are in the kitchen. If he sees you guys, he’ll really snap. He’s yelling. Wait. Julie pulled the phone from the muffler.

Somebody better hear what I got to say, or there’s gonna be shit to pay! he shouted even louder. Get it, goddamn it?

Julie once again wrapped the phone close to her mouth. Hear that, Lieutenant?

Yeah, made out some of it. Nuts.

He whacked one of the cooks on the head. Needs help.

We can’t see him from where we are. Can you?

He’s about thirty feet from me. I’ve got an idea.

Don’t do anything stupid.

A loud slapping thud came from the food stand, followed by the boy’s cry for help.

Gotta go. I’m gonna stand up, so if you have your sniper scopes on the kiosk, I’ll be wearing—she held up the coat into the light—a pale blue jacket. I’m in the middle of the concourse in the info booth. Pale blue jacket. She slid the barrel of her Sig an inch to make sure a round was chambered. Then she tugged the tight-fitting, wrinkled blazer over her broad shoulders and clipped the mall ID badge higher on her lapel. She grabbed a pair of tortoise-rimmed reading glasses from the counter and ruffled her hair. The front of the jacket lost its button, but she still concealed her pistol in her left waistband.

I’ll talk to you, sir! she yelled. Hey there! Help! Don’t shoot! If he was going to fire, it would probably be in the first couple moments.

Who the fuck is it? The man’s head popped around the stand’s swinging door. He still had the kid in a neck hold.

Julie took a deep breath, her hands high overhead. Please, I have two babies at home. The lie seemed to work; she had his attention. Sir, can I just walk away? Promise I won’t tell a soul. Hands still overhead, she cleared the booth and got to within twenty feet of the food stand, in good pistol range. She gestured toward the corridor, which would bring her even closer. If you’ll just let me get to my car—she pointed down the hallway toward the back of the mall—I’ll be out of your hair and on my way.

Hold up there! Damn it all and shut the fuck up! Come over here. He let go of the boy’s neck and pulled him in tight to his side. He brought the shotgun up to belt level, the short barrel and chopped-off stock piece looking like a stretched-out handgun. I ought to blow your girly brains out—

I just want to get to my car. She shifted from foot to foot. I hurt my side when I fell down in the booth, and I have to call the babysitter to tell her—

Close your mouth, for Christ’s sake. One more word, and I’ll blow this shit-for-brains’ head off. He brought around the sawed-off shotgun and pressed it against the boy’s head.

Julie held up one finger as if asking permission to speak.

The man looked down both long corridors. Take that jacket off, or I’ll make a mess here. Wanna see if you’re armed. Do it. He turned on an evil grin and lowered the gun slightly, waiting for his show.

Julie slipped her right arm out of the jacket and took off the glasses. What do you want to see? She reached across and slowly pulled her left arm sleeve free of the jacket and pinned it against her hip. Her right hand now held the Sig behind the coat. She stood feet together, head bowed, submissive.

The man gestured with his 12-gauge weapon. You work here with the rest of these bastards? The end of the shotgun rested on the counter, pointing down the long corridor, away from Julie.

Without a view of the man’s head and upper body, she would not have a shot, and neither would SWAT. She would have to draw him out. Julie dropped the jacket and glasses. Her weapon flashed across a short arc and leveled on the man’s chest. Police officer. Release the child and slowly take your hand off the weapon.

His eyes turned into fiery red orbs. I’ll kill you, bitch! I’ll—

Julie secured her 9-millimeter with both hands, her left foot slightly in front—classic shooter’s stance. I’ll say this for the last time. Take your hand off the shotgun. She watched the air slowly drain from the suspect’s body, his lips bunched into puffy regret.

His fingers began a slow retreat.

He’s going to give it up.

The kid screamed and jerked away. When he did, the man’s left hand flew toward the scatter gun, firing a round as he leveled the barrel at her.

He never heard the sound or felt the two .9s as they dug through his body. The third left a dime-sized hole in his forehead.

Julie saw the blood on her left leg, midthigh, and just below her knee before she felt the sting. She lifted the still-connected phone. Scene secure. Shots fired. Subject down. Officer down. She backed against the information booth and slid to the floor.

The Dragons will do it this year. God is my witness." Todd, aka Big Man, fancied himself a hot ballplayer.

Todd Devlin, Julie’s partner, and several other troopers enjoyed a lunch of burgers and fries at Wing’s Diner. A couple guys agreed about the local team’s chances. Julie listened to their heated discussion but couldn’t commit to the conversation except to say that she’d spank all their butts in a one-on-one and spot them h,o, and r, in a game of Horse.

There began a chorus of oohs and aahs, as if she were goddess of the court.

She made a quick fake to Todd’s right and mimed a one-handed three-pointer. Swish! She shoots and scores! Give it up, boys. You’re outclassed.

They enjoyed her performance, but her thoughts were on the lieutenant’s words to her as she left the station for lunch. Captain wants a word with you at one thirty.

What’s it about? Any idea?

He seemed pissed. Wear your raincoat.

After lunch, she had a half hour, so she decided to take a slow walk back to the station. She had been lucky with the shotgun pellets. The skin was punctured, but no bones were struck, and no nerve damage. She just needed to keep moving.

You sure you want to walk? A girl can’t be too careful.

It was her first day back, and Julie knew that Todd was more concerned about her injuries than she was, but she played along with him. She patted her hip, her short leather jacket hiding the Sig automatic tucked high on her waist. I can manage, thank you.

She liked Todd. He was a good worker and loyal to a fault. Maybe a bit too easy, as her father used to say.

A brisk fall day, she couldn’t imagine a nicer afternoon—if only the threat of having to speak to Captain Walker in a pissed state wasn’t looming over her.

By the way, according to our beloved Dr. Crankenstein . . .

Walker held a typed memo at arm’s length for her to see. His wide shoulders sloped from years of heavy decision making, his lined face having tracked the many miles of police toil. She says you never . . . he scanned the paper to pick out the appropriate line. Subject is not completing her psychiatric examination after the shooting incident. I deem this treatment crucial and necessary for the safety of said patient and others who may in the future prove to be at odds with the aforementioned patient. Miss Worth shows a combative nature when confronted. Dr. Heidi Cranstein.

She’d love hearing you call her ‘Crankenstein,’ Captain.

Oh yeah? I hear she’s a piece of work. The commissioner thinks you’re exploiting your newfound celebrity in order to get out of seeing this doctor. I don’t agree, but there you have it.

He gestured toward the door for her to leave. Anyway, you have to go back and see her, fulfill your required number of visits. Help me out here.

Thank you, sir, for allowing me to speak. She left his office and noticed the squad room listening in.

The following day, the captain again called Julie into his office.

What’s up on the gas station shooting debacle? Anything new?

She brought her three-ring binder, anticipating that she would be placed on administrative leave and that some of her cases would need to be handed off. We’re close to wrapping it up. We know this heavily tattooed street guy, Lobo, was involved. Probably did the deed, just need to find him.

That house fire BS. What about it?

About the same, Captain. We’ve got pictures of the wife going into a motel with a fellow we thought was good for that double tap up north last year. She glanced at her notes. Swan McGee—hell of a name, but he’s our guy. Todd’s working on a warrant as we speak. Our favorite judge—they gave each other a wink—is usually good about probable cause. In any case, we’ve got this jerk McGee at the scene with the broad doing the nasty at the Motel 6. We’re pretty much locked up.

Good work. Walker cleared his throat. Here’s the hell of it. I ran a couple scenarios past the commish in terms of your rehab. Doesn’t help that you’re blowing off your psych sessions. Best I can do is two weeks admin leave and a month of desk work, either in the property room straightening stuff or in latent.

Latent prints?

No, past unsolved crap.

How far back would I need to go, sir?

Up to you. You’re probably not going to find anything. O’Neal and Jefferson spent a month last year dusting off all that baloney. I looked over their work. Actually, they were fairly thorough.

Julie closed her binder. If it’s all right with you, I’d like the cold case files. Is there any reg saying I can’t do this as admin duty rather than admin leave?

I don’t get it. You’re being disciplined, and you want this work. Is that what you’re saying? Walker leaned back in his chair.

That’s what I am saying, Captain.

Julie was made to wait far past her appointment time before Dr. Cranstein called her in. The previous patient had left in tears nearly a half hour earlier. She decided she would get the best out of the sessions, regardless of any prejudice she might feel toward Frau Cranstein.

The woman sat next to a file cabinet, her streaked blond hair pulled back tight into a sweet-roll bun. Pincenez glasses graced her heavy nose, as she looked, head down, over the top of the eyepiece. You missed a few appointments, Miss Worthy. Will this be your habit?

Julie hid her smile behind a manufactured cough. No, of course not. I simply forgot.

Cranstein adjusted her glasses and made a few notes. It’s my experience that dissembling, feigning forgetfulness, and being insincere are all signs of secrecy. Wouldn’t you agree, Sergeant?

Julie nodded.

I’m so sorry. I didn’t hear your response.

My response, madam Doctor, was a nod of the head, as in ‘ Yes, I agree.’

So it would follow that although agreeing, you wish to hold your own counsel, correct?

I’m not verbose, and generally not a liar, either. But your questions regarding being secretive might be accurate. She paused. Just like our last meeting. Today I was required to wait half an hour after the previous patient left, knowing full well that half of a one-hour session leaves not a hell of a lot of time. I’m here because I’m required to do so. A psych examination is required by the department. To get right to it, madam—

Doctor.

All right. Doctor. Your questions of whether I enjoyed the shooting were inappropriate.

How so? Enlighten me, please.

How can you be serious, madam—

Doctor.

"Madam, for you to say, ‘Tell me your innermost sense of joy, your feelings, over the death of a human being?’ It is not only inappropriate but insensitive and rude. I killed a man to save a young boy’s life. The only joy was still being able to go home and see my kid. Why don’t you read the account of the incident before you ask me if I enjoyed the taking of a life?"

When you raise your voice to make your point, do you say to yourself, ‘I will be forceful to assure those listening and myself that I’m righteous, indeed’?

We are mixing our metaphors here, madam Doctor. Whether or not I was, to use your word, ‘righteous’ in God’s eyes or correct in the realm of the criminal justice system is way beyond your purview to adjudicate. To ask me that kind of question equates me with a common thug. A killer. Is it your duty to suss out murderers in the department? To weed out the homicidal? Is that who you are?

I would remind you, Sergeant, that I’m not the one being examined here.

You should be, bitch.

The woman made a deliberate show of looking at her watch. This is not of benefit, Sergeant. Let’s be honest.

So fifteen minutes into a one-hour session, and it’s auf Wiedersehen, right?

You really do have issues, Sergeant. One is your inability to interpret emotion. It’s possible the man you mur—shot, killed, was in fact considering a course of agreement. Your explosion of self-righteousness could possibly have been avoided if you considered the other’s right to life. His family, loves, and joys in simple everyday activities, which you took away in the blink of an eye. A millisecond of thought may have changed not only the man’s life but your own. In the years to come, keep in mind your power with that beloved weapon you so proudly wear. You must, at least, be honest with yourself.

To be honest, I want to say ‘Fuck you,’ but I won’t. I’ll just say this is what I call a holy session of misinformed bullshit. If and when I’m ever confronted with another deadly armed shoot-out, I’ll give you a call first, and we can discuss your book-smart theory on who dies and who doesn’t in these truncated guidance sessions. It’s great drive-through psychiatry, Doctor, and, by the way, do you have a dog named Blondie?

The woman had goaded her into making an ass out of herself. Julie stopped on the street to think of what the Nazi bitch said to her about taking away the man’s life in a millisecond, without thought. She asked herself if things could have turned out better—or at least different—if she’d given it more thought. Maybe a wounding shot, not a mortal one, would have been better? It flew against everything she had been taught. The mantra was always two rounds at center mass. A wounded man could still be dangerous.

It gave her pause, though she didn’t regret the man’s death. He had killed and wounded at least three people, but Frau Cranstein finagled and fucked her mind with inaccurate accusations. Niggling doubt remained. Hateful as the woman was, maybe she had a point.

A careful driver, Charles stayed five to ten miles under the speed limit. The stolen 1993 Ford Bronco, a proud symbol of American workmanship. Steady hands guided his vehicle, both in traffic and on deserted country roads. He would grin when drivers circled around him and honked past. He loved it when they’d throw their hands up in despair and laughed when they got worked up.

It didn’t bother him. Charles continued with his safety-margin caravan-like ways. The Bronco was special. To say he owned it would be an exaggeration. But it was his. He used the vehicle during his tomcat hours and on those occasions when transporting female passengers, some of whom would be better left in the wilderness. So the Bronco stayed, for the most part, in a wood garage adjacent to

Reviews for Pursuit

[untraveller · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Poor, at best. Bought this while in the Florida Keys as Hackman was supposedly staying not too far away. My copy was even signed! Looked forward to a different type of thriller (although I'm anything but the traditional connoisseur. problems: Time is fleeting in the book. Stilted language regardless of what other reviewers put forth. Phraseology which would make most readers cringe. It was so unbelievably easy to read that I kept at it, but will never recommend it.

[bgknighton · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A very good mystery debut. Gene Hackman has feel for how people act and talk. There are near misses, but they don't feel as contrived as a lot of new authors would make them. The villain is not invincible. Like the ending.

[khamneithang-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Gene Hackman is no stranger. As two time Academy Award winning actor, he is a household name worldwide. He acted in such classics as The French Connection, The Conversation , Unforgiven , Superman , and Young Frankenstein. He retired from acting in 2004 and began a second career as a novelist. After co-writing a number of historical novels, he wrote a fine western titled Payback at Morning Peak. And moving forward from there, he is crossing over to thriller with his latest novel.Pursuit is the story of Sergeant Julie Worth of the Missouri State Patrol. She’s a no-nonsense cop, sharp and strong-willed. When she takes down a shopping mall shooter, the Missouri State Criminal Investigation Unit hands Julie cold case duty. Confined to the office, Worth browses through old files when one particular case involving the disappearance of a teenager catches her attention. When she is unintentionally drawn into an investigation that closes in on the kidnapper, things begin to take a dangerous turn. Cheryl, Worth’s teenage daughter, is kidnapped.Now it is up to Worth to get her daughter back. But Charles Clegg is no ordinary soul. He is a monster, who kidnapped and killed women. Pushing herself almost off the edge, Worth hunts for Clegg while Cheryl’s life is hanging in the balance.Pursuit by Gene Hackman is wonderfully crafted. It will keep you on the edge of your seat with its gripping story and sharp plot.